Saturday, February 8, 2014

A song of pain and promise

I am the kind of sick that
Makes me want to stab a knife into my side
At the sound of a voice in my memory
Or the sudden moment of remembering a place I can never go back to

I am the kind of sick that 
causes me to stop talking in the middle of my sentence because all the other thoughts rush back loudly 

I am the kind of sick that makes me feel
Like a butterfly and a waterfall
Fragile flutters / crashing waves
And every tip-toe feels like it will be my last

My body feels like one of the glass jugs
The ones I've only-almost broken 
on days when I forget I'm holding things
Strong in some places, fragile in more 
Something hollow, with delicate openings 
For all the bad to pour in and crush me from the inside 

But when I catch my breath
In the quiet inbetweens 
In the minutes before my body screams again 
I try to remember that in Japan a broken porcelain bowl is filled with sacred gold
Pretty little edges filling broken parts 
And so I fill myself with light

Sunsets, banjos, ribbons, love
And I fill myself with light to keep me whole
Don't let the bad come in You're golden 
Don't let the bad come in You're golden.

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